


Jesus died for somebody's sins (but not mine)

by Lavellington



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale tries to figure some stuff out, Crowley is mostly just confused, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Religion, they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavellington/pseuds/Lavellington
Summary: 'So you're going to start, what – praying?''I already pray,' Aziraphale says, primly. 'I am an angel.''Yes, but it's different, what you do,' Crowley says, impatiently. 'It's not all sitting around trying to decipher mistranslated Hebrew, and searching for the Virgin Mary in your tea leaves. You're on the staff!'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is going to have three chapters, but I was too impatient to finish writing the whole thing before posting. New chapter in a couple of days!
> 
> Title from 'Gloria' by Patti Smith.

 

_Form shapes nature. There are certain ways of behaviour appropriate to small scruffy dogs which are in fact welded into the genes. You can't just become small-dog-shaped and hope to stay the same person; a certain intrinsic small-dogness begins to permeate your very Being._

_\- Good Omens_

 

This new _thing_ of Aziraphale's – for a long time, Crowley can think of it in no more specific terms – begins over a perfectly normal lunch. Aziraphale is eating (read: making inappropriate moaning noises over) asparagus with maran egg and smoked ham, and Crowley has just finished his second espresso. They are at the Ritz, and there is a bird singing outside the window, and they are arguing half-heartedly about which side invented public transport. It's a Thursday, and all is right with the world.

'I take full credit,' Crowley says, perhaps laying it on a smidge thick. 'Catch any of your lot taking the bus. They just fly everywhere, or blink in and out of existence in the restrooms of upscale restaurants.'

'I suppose,' Aziraphale muses, 'I should learn how to drive. In the spirit of embracing modernity.'

'Congratulations,' Crowley says, 'on coming around to the internal combustion engine. You're not learning in my Bentley, by the way. It won't respond to anyone but me.'

This is not strictly true, but he has seen Aziraphale attempting to steer multiple conveyances over the years, from a Roman chariot to a penny farthing, and the results have never inspired confidence.

'I wouldn't dream of it,' Aziraphale says, dryly. 'Even when inhabiting your corporation, I didn't dare sit in your car unaccompanied. I took a cab. So you see, angels _can_ use public transit.'

'Taxis don't count as _public transit_ ,' Crowley says, grinning. 'You are so out of touch with ordinary humans. Have you ever even been on the Tube?'

'Certainly,' Aziraphale says. 'With you, I believe. When you took me to that awful concert in Hammersmith.'

'It wasn't awful,' Crowley says, 'it was the Clash.'

'You _told_ me we were going to the symphony.'

Crowley sighs. 'Angel, try to grab a hold of the zeitgeist once every couple of decades, will you?'

Aziraphale takes a deliberate sip of wine and doesn't answer. Crowley smiles into his coffee and lets the conversation drop. Even the silence between them feels like a gift today. He is sitting at a table in a restaurant, and Aziraphale is there, and he genuinely cannot think of a better use of his time.

He looks up when Aziraphale coughs delicately.

'When we –' here Aziraphale makes a complicated hand gesture that either means _swapped bodies_ or _played the accordion_ – 'did you find it a tad ... disconcerting?'

'Sure,' Crowley says, remembering the sensation of suddenly being three inches shorter and the even more disturbing knowledge that he was wearing a tartan bowtie. 'Walking took a bit of practice. New limbs, you know. Like ... breaking in a new pair of shoes. Or driving a new car,' he adds pointedly.

'You haven't had a new car in ninety years,' Aziraphale mutters.

'If it ain't broke –' Crowley begins, indignantly, but Aziraphale cuts him off.

'It wasn't just that,' he says, doggedly. 'I kept feeling the urge to ... _slouch_.'

Crowley snorts.

'Did you also feel the urge to litter? Say naughty words to nice old ladies?'

'Crowley, I'm serious!' Aziraphale insists. 'It wasn't just muscle memory. Being in your body made me act more like you. I wonder what the long term effects of such a thing would be.'

'You mean, would I acquire the urge to hang around dusty books all day, and bestow lollipops on passing children? Unlikely, angel.'

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and goes back to his food.

In truth, Crowley knows exactly what he means. Aziraphale's body had wanted him to sit up straight, hands folded in his lap. It had wanted him to _smile_ more.

He's silent for a moment, watching Aziraphale daintily spear a piece of asparagus. Just to be annoying, he waits until Aziraphale has a mouthful of food to say,

'So what do you think that means?'

Aziraphale pulls a face and chews pointedly, raising his eyebrows.

'You think ...' Crowley says, carrying on the conversation without him, 'that part of the reason we've _gone native_ is because we've been inhabiting human bodies all this time?'

Aziraphale swallows hastily, nodding, and then coughs, reaching for his wine.

'Yes,' he says, recovering and pointing at Crowley with his fork. 'I've been wondering about that. Although they're not human bodies, not exactly.'

'But,' Crowley says, scratching his chin thoughtfully, 'you think that all this time wearing human clothes and eating human food and ... remembering to blink in polite company –'

'– and imbibing alcohol,' Aziraphale puts in, sloshing his wine around in the glass.

'– you think that's, what, _corrupted_ us?'

'No,' Aziraphale says, and then, 'well, alright, yes. But not corrupted in an evil sense. Diluted, maybe. Alloyed.'

' _Alloyed_ ,' Crowley repeats, as skeptically as possible. 'Kind of like reverse alchemy. Turned gold to dross, is that it? The base metals of humanity?'

'Why,' says Aziraphale, long-suffering, 'do you persist in attaching a negative connotation to every word I suggest? I'm not saying it's a bad thing.'

'Oh,' Crowley says.  

'It's just, none of the other angels can see the appeal of food, or music, or ...'

'Hanging around with demons?' Now, Crowley thinks, they're getting to the point, albeit at a glacial pace.

'Well,' Aziraphale says, fiddling with his napkin. 'You have to admit, it's surprising. Us becoming friends the way we have. I'm glad we did, of course. But I wonder if something about inhabiting these forms for so long made us more amenable to meeting in the middle? Less rigid in our beliefs?'

'Could just be long exposure,' Crowley says. 'It's hard to see someone as the enemy when you keep bumping into each other at the same parties. And it's not as though anyone else on this planet understands ...'

'No,' Aziraphale says, 'that's true, I suppose. But it feels like more than that. Like there's something ...'

Here Aziraphale blushes horribly, and Crowley tenses, hand stilling where he'd been idly playing with his coffee spoon.

'Something what?'

'Something instinctual. Something _physical_ ,' Aziraphale says.

There is approximately eight seconds of silence, during which Crowley's traitorous body proves Aziraphale's point by attempting to expel his heart by way of his oesophagus.

'I meant ...' Aziraphale begins, awkwardly.

'I know what you meant,' Crowley says, quietly. And he does. Humans crave touch and proximity in a way that angels and demons simply don't. Their affection is all tied up in sense memory – smells and textures and fondly-remembered songs. It had felt like an alien sensation, at first. But the lines have certainly blurred over the years.

'When I was in your body,' Aziraphale says, shifting uncomfortably, 'I found it dreadfully unsettling, not to be able to _see_ you. You were still there, of course. You just looked like me. But it was unnerving all the same. I suppose it never really struck me before ... that is to say, I've –'

'Grown accustomed to my face?' Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale huffs, half laughter, half exasperation.

'I suppose so,' he says, tossing his napkin down and smiling at Crowley. Something tense and expectant seems to seep out of the air around them. 'You've been my only constant, you know. All these centuries.'

'I know,' Crowley says. 'Aziraphale, I _know_.'

'Yes,' Aziraphale says. 'I suppose you do.'

 

*

 

Crowley would probably forget all about the conversation in the weeks that follow, except he notices, with a creeping sense of unease, that Aziraphale is definitely acting more _human_. He makes good on his threat of learning to drive; Crowley nearly shrivels up with embarrassment like an immolating crisp packet when he arrives at the shop early one day and sees Aziraphale behind the wheel of a compact white Prius, approaching in a series of screeches and jerks, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth and his hands glued to the wheel in perfect ten-to-two form. He parks the car a clear six feet from the kerb and hops out, waving cheerfully to his instructor, who is sitting in the passenger seat with a suspiciously fixed smile on her face.

Then there's the baking. Aziraphale, intelligent and undoubtedly skilled in many ways, simply cannot cook for shit. He is terrible at all forms of food preparation in only the way that the pickiest gourmand angel could be, impatient for the ingredients in his hands to turn into perfectly cooked and beautifully presented _food_ , presumably through some form of transubstantiation. However, he will not be dissuaded from this new hobby either, so between the Prius and the new breadmaker, things are starting to get a little disturbing.

Crowley tells himself that it is at least better than the magic tricks, but this is thin consolation when he finds himself repeatedly having to miracle flour stains off of his favourite jackets.

The strangest thing, though, is that Aziraphale starts going to church.

Of course, being an angel, he's dropped into some churches from time to time. However, that one memorable occasion during the Blitz aside, Crowley rather had the impression that he 'dropped in' in the same way that a corporate bigwig might 'drop in' to the office Christmas party to make awkward small talk with the working drones. It had mostly been a vague sense of obligation, just to see how things were chugging along. He'd never really participated, let alone regularly attended Sunday service.

'I don't get it,' he says to Aziraphale, lounging against the desk and watching the angel transfer dusty books from one shelf to another, slightly higher shelf. 'Why go to church? You know those services are made by humans, for humans. Rife with inaccuracy and, and ... funny smells.  What could you possibly get out of them?'

'I want to pay my respects,' Aziraphale says. 'I still have my loyalties.'

' _How_?' Crowley says. 'After how they treated –'

'It's not about Gabriel,' Aziraphale says. He's still messing about with his books, and doesn't meet Crowley's eye. 'Or Michael, or Uriel, or any of them. I still believe in God. Beyond that ... well, I don't really know.'

'That puts you on about equal footing with everyone else on this blasted planet,' Crowley says, scathing.

'Yes,' Aziraphale says. 'That was, in fact, my point.'

'So you're going to start, what – praying?'

'I already pray,' Aziraphale says, primly. 'I am an _angel_.'

'Yes, but it's different, what you do,' Crowley says, impatiently. 'It's not all sitting around trying to decipher mistranslated Hebrew, and searching for the Virgin Mary in your tea leaves. You're on the staff!'

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at this.

'For them,' Crowley says, 'it's like chucking a coin into a fountain and hoping a chocolate bar will leap out. You get to go right to the –'

'Crowley,' Aziraphale says serenely, 'if you are moving towards a comparison of the kingdom of Heaven with a vending machine, I suggest you re-orient yourself.'

'Whatever,' Crowley says, waving his hand. 'It's not a perfect metaphor. The point is, you can't just decide you're going to start living like a human. You're _not_ a human.'

'I know that,' Aziraphale says, patiently. He moves to the desk, beside Crowley, and starts to sort through another teetering stack of books. 'But I have chosen, at least in part, to live like one. I have rejected the role that Heaven assigned to me. I cannot feel that I was mistaken in doing so, but the fact remains I must now figure out a new one.'

Crowley stares at him.

'Aziraphale,' he says, 'not to sound egotistical, but is this about me, at all?'

Aziraphale sighs.

'No,' he says. 'This is about me, for a wonder. However, without your influence these past 6,000 years ...'

'You'd still be a perfect, _divine_ being?' Crowley says, sneering half-heartedly. He's surprised, genuinely, at how much that one hurts.

Aziraphale grabs his wrist, and he stills, already half-turned away.

'Without you,' Aziraphale says, 'I would still only be half of myself. I am eternally grateful that you and I met, on this world and in these forms. I cannot put it any better than that.'

Crowley turns all the way back around.

'All this is beyond me,' he confesses, staring at Aziraphale's fingers, clasped loosely around his wrist.

Aziraphale lets go.

'I know,' he says. 'But I hope you will understand what I'm getting at, sooner or later.'

'I'm not _going_ anywhere,' Crowley says, just in case it needs to be said.

Aziraphale smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Did you make these yourself?' Crowley asks, two sandwiches later. They are messy and soggy, not the neat, crisp triangles Aziraphale usually produces for these occasions.
> 
> Aziraphale looks sheepish.
> 
> 'Yes,' he says, holding a sandwich up and looking at it critically. 'I'm trying to ... I'm taking fewer shortcuts.'
> 
> Crowley raises his eyebrows and sniffs his six pound Tesco wine, which has, sometime in the last few minutes, transformed into a pleasantly kicky Chardonnay.
> 
> 'Well,' Aziraphale says. 'I did say _fewer_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *megaphone* Who's ready for some more _pining_?

_When I am from him, I am dead till I be with him; when I am with him, I am not satisfied, but would still be nearer him. United souls are not satisfied with imbraces, but desire to be truly each other; which being impossible, their desires are infinite, and must proceed without a possibility of satisfaction._

\- _Religio Medici_

 

Crowley wakes up on Aziraphale's couch. It is, like most things Aziraphale owns, permeated with several decades of dust, and offensive to almost all of the senses. Crowley groans and stretches, something popping satisfyingly in his back, and curls up again under a musty and unfashionable tartan blanket, strangely unwilling to get up just yet.

He had tried, the night before, to draw Aziraphale into a conversation on religion. This is something they don't actually do very often, as most of their conversations around _religion_ take for granted certain truths, and are not so much philosophical musings as they are shop talk. They have occasionally skirted the edges of a more metaphysical debate about the nature of the divine, the ineffability of God and the great bloody point of it all, but it usually leads to bickering and sometimes hair pulling. In light of Aziraphale's recent strange behaviour, Crowley had decided, last night, to try again.

Aziraphale has a thing for bibles. Crowley knows this: it's been going on for decades. Centuries, even. It's one of his specialities. It doesn't seem to be correlated to Aziraphale's new fascination with the human practice of faith, but Crowley had figured it was a decent place to start.

 

*

 

'You only collect the ones with mistakes,' he observed, a respectable three glasses of wine deep, flipping through what Aziraphale had once told him, with a prim little cough, is known as the _Buggre Alle This_ bible.

'My dear,' Aziraphale said, 'they are _all_ full of mistakes. You know that as well as I.'

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it again, and then reopened it to drink more wine.

'May I,' he said later, three bottles of wine deep, hanging off the couch upside down, dashingly wearing only one sock, 'may I play devil's advocate for a moment?'

Aziraphale groaned, as he always did, at the old joke, and slopped more wine into his glass.

'What I want to know is –' Crowley slowly and gracelessly turned himself right way up and turned to face the angel, '– why are they any better?'

'Who?' Aziraphale asked.

'It's _whom_ ,' Crowley said, wagging a finger.

'It most decidedly is not, you drunken ignoramus. Why are _who_ any better?'

Crowley sighed irritably.

'The humans! I fully support you ghosting Gabriel –' he paused, and decided to annotate. ' _Ghosting_ means –'

'I can extrapolate,' Aziraphale said, 'based on context, thank you. Do get to the point.'

'Right. Well. As I was saying, I can fully support you telling Gabriel to go fuck himself – _don't_ interrupt, I'm paraphrasing, obviously – but why are the humans any better? Do you really think they're closer to God than you?'

'I think,' Aziraphale said carefully, 'that we are all closer to God than we might think.'

'What does that _mean_?' Crowley said. 'That doesn't mean anything.'

'There are things we can never know, or understand,' Aziraphale said. 'It is foolish to build our most closely held beliefs on attempts to guess the ineffable.'

'Through a glass darkly,' Crowley said. He tipped his own wine glass towards Aziraphale, with a fair amount of sarcasm, but Aziraphale only smiled at him.

'Quite. But there are things we do know, things _they_ know too. There are conclusions every human civilization has come to, separately. There are core ideas common to all beliefs. And those ideas do not belong to Gabriel, or any of the ... the _middle_ _management_. They don't belong to human churches, or governments. They are for everyone, and they can only be truly understood through ...' he paused, waving his hand in an elegant circle '... practical application.'

Crowley stared at him, chin propped on his hand, brain whirring fruitlessly.

'Can't you just ... wing it?' he said, finally.

Aziraphale frowned. 'Is that another pun?'

 

*

 

It figures, Crowley thinks, that Aziraphale would take a top down rather than a bottom up approach to the reorganization of his lifelong belief system. Aziraphale, despite all appearances, can be quite methodical when it suits him.

It's true Aziraphale is absent-minded. He gets wrapped up in reading and forgets to open the shop for a week. He piles books up in wobbly, uncertain stacks on every available surface (and some, according to the laws of physics and retail merchandising, that should be _unavailable_ ). He has, to Crowley's eternal satisfaction, been habitually lax in the execution of his angelic duties. But he takes a firm approach to the things that matter. He is untidy, forgetful and lazy, but he is _good._ He doesn't take shortcuts with being good, not when it really counts. He does not pass by on the other side.

Crowley longs for the days when he thought Aziraphale was gloriously predictable. He can't tell now what new conclusions the angel is coming to, which things he will put away and which things he will keep.

Aziraphale still believes in God. He's said as much. However, it appears that he has had the long overdue revelation that everyone else in Heaven is a smug twat, and has decided to cut out the middleman – or at least, find a new one. Crowley isn't sure that singing _All Things Bright and Beautiful_ with a bunch of humans wearing their best cardigans is going to bring Aziraphale closer to the Almighty, but Aziraphale seems unmoved by this line of reasoning. So Crowley waits, and watches.

He has seen Aziraphale in every conceivable mood, has had every conversation it's possible to have, over and over in various iterations (except, perhaps, one). He knows Aziraphale. Knows him deep down inside his own bones, finds him wrapped up glimmering at the centre of his own thoughts night after night. If Crowley has a soul, it's woven of musty and unfashionable tartan, and that's the pathetic, hilarious, eye-watering truth of things.

So he waits, and he watches, a little desperately, for something familiar. There are a couple of things the bible got right, and one of them is this: there is nothing new under the sun.

 

*

 

Aziraphale surfaces about half an hour later, stumbling out of his tiny bedroom with a yawn, and waving blearily to Crowley on the couch. Aziraphale had never gone in for sleep much before the averted apocalypse, which is probably why he still hasn't learned to cope with waking up very well.

'Morning,' Crowley says, unfurling. 'Thanks for letting me stay.'

'Any time, my dear,' Aziraphale says absently, already filling the kettle. Crowley gets up and leans in the doorway, watching him.

'Tea?' Aziraphale says, over his shoulder.

'Why don't we go out for breakfast?' Crowley says, impulsively. 'We could go to that café –'

'I'm going to church,' Aziraphale says, and Crowley grinds to a halt, because he can't exactly go _with_ him.

He fires off a mock salute, which makes Aziraphale frown, and says, 'Okay. Have fun. Go easy on the communion wine.'

He turns to go, dressing himself with a thought and flipping on his sunglasses.

'Wait,' says Aziraphale, looking between Crowley, the clock and the kettle with an expression of bewilderment. 'Why don't you stay for –'

'No thanks,' Crowley says breezily. 'I'll catch you later, angel.'

He's in the Bentley fifteen seconds later, violently shifting into gear and listening to Freddie Mercury telling him to play the game of love. While he's driving he realises he has a headache for this first time since disco went out of fashion, and swears loudly all the way home.

 

*

 

He avoids Aziraphale all week. If anyone asked, and Crowley doesn't know who on earth would, he would say that all this piety is bringing him out in a rash. In truth, he's floundering. He's willing to wait, to give Aziraphale time to figure things out. That's something he's good at. But he can't help but worry that once things are figured out, he'll be sorted into a box labelled 'junk' and left on the kerb for the dustman. Metaphorically speaking. In reality, of course, Aziraphale never throws anything away, which is why he still owns so many Regency snuffboxes.

He's aggressively misting his plants on Saturday morning when the doorbell rings: a polite, insistent trill. He sighs, and puts the plant mister down. Looks like his avoidance time is up.

Aziraphale is in his hallway, fidgeting with his cuffs and shifting his feet the way he does when he's nervous. He's holding a wicker basket, and for one wild moment Crowley's heart is in his throat, completely convinced Aziraphale is about to produce another blasted baby. He forces himself to raise an eyebrow and lean nonchalantly on the half-open door. Aziraphale smiles at him uncertainly.

'Crowley! So glad to have caught you. Apologies for not ringing first, but I thought you might – that is to say, we're both at rather a loose end these days, and I thought ...' he holds up the basket awkwardly.

Crowley relents, stepping back to let him in, and smiling for the first time all week.

'Come _in_ , angel. Don't just stand there blathering.'

'Right,' Aziraphale says, stepping inside with an endearingly ceremonious little hop. 'Right you are.'

Crowley closes the door and turns to face Aziraphale, waving him into the living room. The angel still looks jumpy.

'So what's up?' Crowley asks, flopping on to the sofa.

'It's such a lovely day,' Aziraphale says loudly, waving a hand towards the window like he's in a play. 'I thought we might go for a walk.'

Crowley stares at him.

'What's wrong with you?'

'Nothing!' Aziraphale says. 'Why would there be anything wrong? Everything is –'

' _Don't_ say tickety-boo,' Crowley says, firmly. 'It's ... it's just too early.'

'– fine, I was going to say. Everything is fine.' Aziraphale looks beseechingly at him. 'It _is_ a lovely day. Won't you come for a walk with me?'

'Uh. Sure,' Crowley says, crumbling instantly in the face of earnest entreaty. Aziraphale beams.

'Oh, wonderful! I thought we could go for a picnic in the park.' He pats the basket enthusiastically.

'On a Saturday?' Crowley says. 'It'll be packed with humans. Worse than humans – _tourists_.'

'Well, I dare say we'll survive,' Aziraphale says brightly. 'Do humour me, Crowley. I want to sit by the water and drink wine in the sun. Doesn't that sound nice?'

Crowley grumbles as he heaves himself off the sofa, and he grumbles as he puts on his jacket, and he grumbles all the way down in the elevator. But as soon as they step outside and Aziraphale tilts his face up to catch the sunlight, Crowley falls silent and follows him. They bend their steps towards St James's.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, but after a couple of minutes Crowley feels something nudge tentatively at his elbow. He glances to the side, and sees Aziraphale, apparently trying to give the impression that his left arm, which is currently sliding through Crowley's right, is acting independently from his body and without his knowledge.

Crowley looks away quickly, too shocked to smile. He does crook his elbow though, allowing Aziraphale's arm to comfortably link through his. They walk like that for quite a while.

 

*

 

Aziraphale takes _forever_ to find an acceptable picnicking spot, and once they're sitting down he realises that he forgot the wine, so Crowley sighs and slopes off to the nearest Tesco, where he buys a truly awful bottle of white with a picture of a bicycle on it for six pounds. Aziraphale will improve it anyway.

When he gets back to their carefully chosen spot, Aziraphale is setting out plates, cups and flasks with fussy precision, the breeze ruffling his hair slightly. The sun and the breeze and the smell of grass are having a peculiarly relaxing effect on Crowley after a week of moody introspection, and he breathes in slowly, just to savour it. He thinks of Aziraphale's musings on the effects of their human bodies, and thinks he's just understood something.

'Mellowed,' he says. Aziraphale squints up at him from the blanket, hand moving to shield his eyes, and Crowley instinctively moves so that he's between Aziraphale and the sun.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Not _corrupted_ ,' Crowley says. 'Not ... alloyed. Mellowed. Living as humans, it mellowed us.'

A smile spreads slowly across Aziraphale's face.

'Yes,' he murmurs. 'Mellowed. The _mot juste_.'

'Okay, I know we're going native,' Crowley says, 'but I draw the line at speaking French.'

He sits down next to Aziraphale, who is still smiling at him.

'Go on, then,' he says. 'Break out the sandwiches.'

 

*

 

'Did you make these yourself?' Crowley asks, two sandwiches later. They are messy and soggy, not the neat, crisp triangles Aziraphale usually produces for these occasions.

Aziraphale looks sheepish.

'Yes,' he says, holding a sandwich up and looking at it critically. 'I'm trying to ... I'm taking fewer shortcuts.'

Crowley raises his eyebrows and sniffs his six pound Tesco wine, which has, sometime in the last few minutes, transformed into a pleasantly kicky Chardonnay.

'Well,' Aziraphale says. 'I did say _fewer_.'

 

*

 

Aziraphale, in a twist unparalleled in centuries of human literature, brings the subject up directly before Crowley can even think of a way to obliquely hint at it and get the lie of the land.

'Crowley,' he says, picking at the edge of the blanket. 'I wanted to talk to you, about ... well. About the thing we talked about. Last week.'

Crowley squints at him, functionally dumbfounded.

'I want you to know,' Aziraphale says, still not looking at him, 'that my reassessing my faith – or I suppose it would be more accurate to say, the _expression_ of my faith – has no bearing on our friendship.'

Alright, maybe _directly_ was overstating it, Crowley thinks.

'I'm not sure I follow,' he says cautiously.

'I just mean,' Aziraphale says, 'I am unsure of many things right now. But I am not unsure of _you_. It's very important to me that you know that.'

'Well,' Crowley says. 'That's ... that's good.'

Aziraphale glances at him hopefully, then immediately goes back to staring at the tartan. The other people in the park – the music, the laughter, the children shouting – fade to background noise as Crowley watches him.

'What does that mean, exactly?' Crowley asks, with an audacity that apparently surprises both of them. Aziraphale recovers first. He raises his chin and looks Crowley in the eye.

'It means ... I've grown used to having you around these last few years, and I would be loath to return to our habit of bumping into each other once or twice a century.'

'Me too,' Crowley says, quickly. Aziraphale puts a hand on his forearm. This conversation is getting away from him.

'Maybe you could stay again, tonight?' Aziraphale says, hesitantly. 'You wouldn't have to sleep on the couch, unless you wished to.'

His fingers slide down Crowley's arm to cover his hand. Aziraphale is, in fact, _holding_ his hand. Crowley swallows. His head is throbbing and the sun is beating down on the back of his neck.

'Are you talking about ...'

'Whatever you want,' Aziraphale says, his thumb moving across Crowley's knuckles. 'Nothing more than that. Just ... perhaps it could be alright. For us to touch each other.'

Crowley thinks of the night, not so long ago really, when he and Aziraphale shook hands in his bookshop, and agreed to try and save the world. A covenant sealed. He tightens his fingers.

'Alright,' he says. 'Yes.'

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you comment I will give you my firstborn


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley puts a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, because he’s experimenting with not being violently repressed all the time, and strokes the fine hair there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this fic I discovered two new headcanons, which fire cannot melt out of me; I will die in them at the stake.
> 
> 1) Crowley and Aziraphale can tell people's preferred pronouns on any given day just by looking at them, the same way Anathema can read people's auras.
> 
> 2) Heaven invented comic sans, and Crowley is pissed that everyone (including Hell, who very much approve) thinks it was him. He does evil with STYLE.
> 
> Thanks for all the kind comments so far! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> *CW: Brief mention of someone having homophobic parents*

_There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times._

_\- Holy the Firm_

  


Crowley wakes up in Aziraphale’s bed. It is, like Aziraphale himself, a little worn around the edges and astonishingly comfortable. The duvet is ancient, clean and patterned with merry sprigs of lilac. The mattress dips dramatically in the middle, so that any two beings sharing the bed are gradually drawn together into a mattress vortex from which there is no escape.

Crowley knows this now. 

He also knows that Aziraphale does not snore, but he does talk in his sleep – indistinct snatches of what sound like full-blown conversations, occasionally accompanied by dreamy half-smiles and mumbled niceties: _too kind, no trouble at all, my pleasure._ Objectively, this is very funny. Practically, it fills Crowley with a roaring tenderness that he will deny even unto the point of gory discorporation.

He watches Aziraphale for a while as dawn sketches in the room around them, expanding the world beyond the edges of the sagging, lilac-sprigged bed. They are in the highest room in Aziraphale's small flat, and the ceiling slopes gently and insistently on both sides. There is a neat, round window set in the tallest wall. The carpet is a faded sea-green, and every piece of rickety furniture is piled high with stranded books and knick-knacks. A carriage clock on the mantel ticks just a smidgen too slow. The silence between its strokes rolls over Crowley in waves. Eventually, weighted by the twin ballasts of the lumpy bedspread and Aziraphale’s arm heavy on his waist, he drifts away again.   
  


When he wakes again, Aziraphale is moving around the room, humming softly to himself. Crowley watches drowsily as he puts on the waistcoat he always wears to church – the gold brocade – and feels nothing but fondness and relief. Whatever this is, he has not lost Aziraphale to it. He’ll figure out the rest as he goes.

For reasons he doesn’t entirely understand, he feigns sleep as Aziraphale prepares to leave, breathing deeply and relaxing his face as much as possible so that his eyelids don’t flutter his awareness. He feels Aziraphale loom over the bed and knows that he is looking at him, feels warm affection lapping at the edges of his consciousness. Before Aziraphale leaves, he bends and touches his lips carefully to Crowley’s right eyelid, and it’s ridiculous, ridiculous, it’s the most ridiculous thing that anyone has ever done.  
  


When he wakes for a third time, the little round window is open a crack, curtains fluttering. There is a note taped to the mirror on top of the bureau, in Aziraphale’s neat and elaborately curlicued handwriting. Crowley heaves himself reluctantly from the depths of Aziraphale’s bed and moves to read it. It’s an address in Westminster, and underneath it says _Noon_. 

  
  


*

  


The address in Westminster turns out to be a village hall of the kind where people host bake sales, community bingo, and no doubt many other things in which Crowley has no interest. He’d decided to walk rather than park the Bentley at a mysterious location probably filled with churchgoing humans, and he now finds himself swept along in a chattering crowd before he can suss out what exactly Aziraphale has lured him into attending.  

The inside of the hall is filled with humans milling about and talking and hugging, most of them still in their Sunday best. Dozens of folding chairs are set up in rows, facing expectantly towards the front of the room. There is a modest stage, which looks like it’s seen many a primary school production of _Little Red Riding Hood_. At the back of the room, where Crowley is now standing, are the obligatory trestle tables with great tea and coffee urns, and plates laden with biscuits and triangular sandwiches.

He looks around, trying to find some indication of what he’s let himself in for. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up unpleasantly. It’s been a long time since he’s been in the midst of a group of people united in their love of God, and frankly he thinks it’s a bit fucking peculiar. Why on earth has Aziraphale invited him here?

He wanders over to the tea table. A plump, smiling woman clocks him lurking and says, ‘Tea or coffee, love?’

‘Coffee,’ Crowley says, remembering at the last moment to add, ‘please.’

‘There you are,’ she says, ‘and lots of sweet treats here, help yourself. Do you know someone in the choir?’

‘Pardon?’ Crowley says.

‘They’ve been practising such a lot recently,’ the woman continues. ‘They’re all so excited to see such a turnout.’

Crowley notices a pile of flyers by the raisin scones and reaches out for one. _Soho LGBTQIA Choir_. It has a rainbow flag printed in the corner, and one of those little fish things that Christians like so much, and Crowley can never remember the name of.

‘Of course,’ the woman is saying, ‘it’s a shame we couldn’t have it in the church.’

Crowley squints at the flyer. It does indeed read _St John’s Church, Soho_ , in purple comic sans.

‘Why not?’ he says.

‘Well,’ the woman says, ‘because of the leak! Just at the end of the service today, part of the ceiling came down – right where the choir was supposed to be performing. The vicar thinks it must be something to do with the boiler. It’s a downright miracle this hall was free at such short notice.’

‘Yes,’ Crowley says, ‘I think you’re right about that.’

‘Looks like they’re getting ready to start,’ the woman says, nodding towards the front. ‘Best get a seat, love.’

‘Right,’ Crowley says. ‘Thanks.’

‘God bless,’ she says, distractedly, and Crowley winces, moving away. Honestly, humans waving blessings around the place. You could have someone’s eye out.

He decides not to sit down, but joins a group of people who are lingering at the back for various reasons – a man pacing and gently rocking a fretfully sleeping baby, a couple filling up on the free scones, a twitchy woman with tobacco stains on her fingers. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s bloody awful.

 

He spots Aziraphale a couple of minutes later, amongst the group of people who are assembling on the stage. There are benches of different heights arranged on the stage, so that the people standing on them form three tiers. Aziraphale is in the middle tier, and he is wearing – Crowley checks twice, just to be sure – a t-shirt. He looks supremely uncomfortable, plucking at the collar and tugging down the hem as he speaks to a similarly t-shirt clad woman next to him. The t-shirts are purple, and say _Soho LGBTQIA Choir_ on the front (thankfully, not in comic sans). Aziraphale is smiling and nodding politely at his companion, but Crowley can see his eyes straying around the hall.

He thinks,  _over here_ , and Aziraphale’s eyes snap to him instantly, his mouth curling upwards. The woman next to him follows his gaze and smiles slightly. Crowley nods to them both, raising his coffee cup in salute.

At that moment, a vicar with steel grey hair, a paunch, and a lightly stained cardigan ambles onto the stage. As he attempts half-heartedly to shush the crowd, Crowley sees Aziraphale looking disapprovingly at the stain on his cardigan, and then with the air of someone remembering something deeply painful, looking down at his own violet t-shirt.

‘Good afternoon,’ the vicar tries for the fourth time. 

The woman standing next to Aziraphale shouts, ‘ _OI!_ ’

The crowd falls silent, conversations petering out as people look away from their neighbours and twist to face the stage expectantly.

‘Yes,’ the vicar says, ‘yes, thank you. Welcome, everyone!’

Crowley sees Aziraphale roll his eyes.

‘I’d like to thank you all for coming today,’ the vicar continues, ‘and for supporting not only St John’s church, but specifically our Lgbt parishoners, and indeed all of our LGBT siblings. There is a collection box at each entrance, and all the proceeds will go towards helping homeless LGBT people, so please dig deep.’

Crowley waves a hand at one of the collection boxes surreptitiously, and it grows a little heavier.

‘Now,’ the vicar says, ‘without further ado, I give you our wonderful choir.’ 

He bows awkwardly off the stage, and there is a smattering of applause. 

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s eye just before the singing starts, and Crowley lowers his sunglasses a little to wink at him.

  


*

 

The singing itself is rather good – better than Crowley was expecting from a local church choir with a predilection for oversized t-shirts and comic sans. Most of it is secular too, which he appreciates, although he does have to grimace his way through _All Things Bright and Beautiful_. The next one is _God Only Knows_ , which Aziraphale delivers with gusto. Crowley supposes the Beach Boys, though ranking far below Bach, must fall somewhere in the acceptable middle ground between ‘celestial harmonies’ and ‘bebop’ in Aziraphale’s personal musical landscape.

 

Crowley isn’t prepared, though he should be, when the choir launches into _Somebody to Love_. The woman next to Aziraphale is singing the lead, and is really quite astoundingly good, and the choir delivers the harmonies beautifully. Crowley can only focus on Aziraphale, his voice rising above all the others, rising pure and clear straight through the ceiling and towards the clouds, like it knows it belongs there.

  


*

  


After the singing is over and they have all applauded their hands raw, Crowley sees Aziraphale make towards him, hurrying down the steps at the side of the stage. He watches as Aziraphale is waylaid by various people, including the grubby vicar, all shaking his hand and smiling warmly. It takes Aziraphale 7 minutes and 14 seconds to cross the room to where Crowley is standing.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale stops in front of him, smiling and shifting from foot to foot. ‘You came!’

‘Course,’ Crowley says. ‘Bit of a cryptic invitation, angel.’

‘Well,’ Aziraphale says, ‘I wanted to be sure you would turn up. And before you complain, I learned that trick from you.’

Crowley fails to hide a smile at this. ‘Very devious,’ he says.

‘What did you think? Of the singing?’

‘Pretty good,’ Crowley admits. ‘You were miles better than the humans, of course. Seems unfair to have an ethereal being in there, showing everyone up.’

‘There is no way you could make out my voice in a choir of thirty people,’ Aziraphale says, but he’s going pink around the ears.

‘Course I could,’ Crowley says. ‘I can hear you from anywhere.’

Aziraphale smiles soppily at him, and Crowley coughs.

‘So,' he says, 'just out of interest, how extensively did you vandalise that church?’ The soppy smile is swiftly replaced with a much more familiar, much shiftier expression.

‘Hardly at _all_ ’, Aziraphale says. ‘It looks much worse than it is, and they’ve already received an anonymous donation to help them repair it, and that ceiling needed a lick of paint anyway, it was very grimy – stop _laughing_ , Crowley!’

Crowley grins, folding his arms. He’s in an extraordinarily good mood just now, but the fact remains he’s not planning on letting this one go for a long while.

‘I just …’ Aziraphale throws a spanner in his plan by glancing up at him, fluttering his lashes in that infuriating, angelic way he has. ‘I wanted you to be here.’

Crowley clears his throat again, disconcerted out of his smugness. ‘Well,’ he says, splaying his hands out awkwardly. ‘Here I am.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says, with a slow smile. ‘So you are.’

‘Aziraphale!’ someone calls, and they both jump and look around. 

‘Oh’ Aziraphale says, waving. ‘Hello!’

‘Choir friends?’ Crowley asks, looking at the group of smiling, purple-clad people waving at them from across the hall. There are two young women and an extremely bubbly-looking person with pink hair, carrying a tote bag that reads _Gays Against Vivisection._ They begin to struggle through the crowd towards them.

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale says, looking back at Crowley. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Nah,’ Crowley says. ‘Surprised you gave them your real name. I thought you were still going by A.Z. Fell.’

‘I am,’ Aziraphale says. ‘Only someone asked me what the “A” stood for …’

Crowley guffaws, and Aziraphale smacks him on the arm.

‘You told them your name was Aziraphale Fell?’

‘I panicked!’ Aziraphale says, and then his face drops. ‘Oh, dear. I should have asked before – how should I introduce you?’ 

Crowley looks at him, baffled. 

‘Well,’ he says. ‘Unlike you, I actually came up with a name to go with at least one of my fake initials, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’

No,’ Aziraphale says, ‘That’s not what I –’

‘Aziraphale!’ One of the choir friends jogs up to them, the other two trailing behind. It’s the woman who sang the lead in _Somebody to Love_ , and she’s wearing a battered denim jacket.

‘Annalise,’ Aziraphale says, warmly. ‘You did marvellously.’

‘Never mind that,’ Annalise says, flapping a hand at him. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Aziraphale says. ‘This is my ... partner, Anthony Crowley.’ He takes Crowley’s hand, and Crowley tries not to choke on air. ‘He prefers to go by just Crowley.’

‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ the bubbly, pink-haired person says. Crowley notices they’re wearing a waistcoat over their purple t-shirt that would not look out of place in Aziraphale’s wardrobe. ‘My name is Pat, and this is Emma and Annalise.’

They all smile at him curiously. Emma gives a little wave.

‘Hi,’ Crowley says, waving back with the hand not clutching Aziraphale’s. His head is spinning a little. ‘Nice singing.’

They all beam, Aziraphale brightest of all.

‘We were in rather fine form today, weren’t we?’ Aziraphale says. ‘Emma, did your parents make it?’

‘No,’ Emma says, her smile going tight at the edges. ‘I saw them at church this morning, but they went home before the singing.’

Annalise squeezes her hand. Aziraphale clucks sympathetically, and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, that is quite definitely their loss. I thought you were simply magnificent.’

She smiles at him gamely, the pinched resignation fading a little.

‘Thanks,’ she says, and steps forward, as if compelled, to hug him. Crowley manages not to laugh, but only just. Aziraphale has always felt slightly awkward about humans’ instinctive urge to seek physical comfort in him – and not always in ways as innocent as this, either. Crowley has had to intervene pretty forcefully once or twice over the centuries. However, Aziraphale seems equal parts pleased and flustered this time, returning the hug only a couple of seconds late. 

‘God bless you, my dear,’ he murmurs, patting her on the shoulder.

When she pulls away, her eyes are misty, and she’s smiling properly.

‘Thanks,’ she says again.

‘Are you coming for lunch?’ Pat asks, hopefully. ‘A few of us are going to the pub.’

‘Oh, thank you dear,’ Aziraphale says, ‘but Crowley and I have plans.’

Crowley nods seriously, trying to look like someone who makes advance lunch plans.

‘Well,’ Pat says, ‘I thought you might say that, so I wanted to give you some homemade treats to take with you.’

They reach into the tote bag and produce a tupperware container full of brightly coloured cupcakes.

‘How lovely!’ Aziraphale says, with genuine delight. ‘Crowley, look!’

‘Nice one,’ Crowley says, peering at them. ‘I like the little ball bearings.’

‘So pretty,’ Aziraphale says, ruefully. ‘I can never get mine to look like that.’

‘Keep practicing,’ Annalise says, encouragingly. Crowley shakes his head at her violently, and she laughs. Aziraphale elbows him.

‘And I made brownies too,’ Pat says, handing him another tupperware, and another.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says, bewildered. ‘Thank you –

‘And banana bread,’ they finish, producing a final container with a flourish and placing it on top of the stack, just under Aziraphale’s chin.

‘Thank you, Pat,’ Aziraphale says. ‘This is very generous of you.’

‘No problem!’ Pat says, hoisting their apparently bottomless tote bag back onto their shoulder. ‘Hope you like them.’

The group exchanges goodbyes and the others peel off, leaving Crowley, Aziraphale, and about three weeks’ worth of baked goods.

‘They _are_ a dear,’ Aziraphale says, shifting the tower of tupperware in his arms. ‘Always bringing cakes and sweets to rehearsals. Good ones, too! The pastries last week –’

Crowley reaches out and snags the top two containers before they all topple to the ground. 

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says, ‘thank you, darling.’

Crowley feels his face turn mortifyingly red. Aziraphale strews around endearments pretty liberally as a rule, but _darling_ is a new one. Close on the heels of _my partner_ , it completely disarms him.

‘They’re obviously trying to steal your look,’ he manages, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice his decidedly undemonic blushing. ‘That waistcoat looks just like the one you used to wear in 1861.’

Aziraphale looks at him knowingly.

‘Well,’ he says, visibly deciding to let Crowley off the hook, ‘I suppose good clothes never truly go out of style.’

‘Funny,’ Crowley says, looking pointedly at Aziraphale’s t-shirt. ‘I got the impression you were modernising.’

‘Ha very ha,’ Aziraphale says, making a face down at himself. ‘I only wore this to keep Emma happy. She designed them, and she was so excited.'

‘They love you, you know,’ Crowley says. ‘All those kids.’

Aziraphale smiles, looking away.

‘I’ve been realising lately,’ he says, ‘that I’m not so different from them, really.’

Crowley looks at him, waiting for him to continue, but Aziraphale is looking pensively at the humans still clustered around the tea table, and doesn’t notice.

‘So you’ve said,’ Crowley says, carefully. ‘I’m still not sure I follow.’

‘God is at home,’ Aziraphale murmurs. ‘We are in the far country.’ 

Crowley puts a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, because he’s experimenting with not being violently repressed all the time, and strokes the fine hair there.

Aziraphale turns to him, eyes soft, and moves to kiss him gently on the mouth. He has to stand on tiptoe, grasping a black lapel with one hand for balance, the blasted tupperware crammed awkwardly between them. Somebody nearby says  _aw_.

‘Why don’t we go home,’ he says, dropping down from the balls of his feet, ‘and have some of these with a nice coffee?’

‘Okay,’ Crowley says. 

He waves goodbye to the woman at the tea table as they leave.  
  


*

 

On the street outside they pass by a man standing on a box and shouting, waving a book at passersby and shaking his fist at the sky. There are people clustered around him, some listening, some laughing, some shouting right back. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and pulls him steadily onwards until the man’s words blend into the riotous, many-voiced chorus of the London street, at last fading to nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'God is at home. We are in the far country' is a quote from the German theologian Meister Eckhart.


End file.
